Morning Ritual

Beauty is only a morning ritual
As she stands in front of the mirror
Tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears, into her ponytail.
She straightens her collar, adjusts her belt
And then pause.
Slowly she lifts the bottom of her shirt
To reveal an unhollywood stomach
And there, an inch and a half above her bellybutton
It sticks out like a mistaken crayon mark outside of the lines.
The scar
Ugly, protruding, yet perfectly natural.
It’s from birth.
The eternal question mark after the word survival.
It’s grown with time, stretched and broken
Never healed.
A constant reminder of a life that may not have been.
Her weight pushes her stomach over and around the scar
Concealing it behind pale skin.
I don’t dig chicks with scars, he said.
She placed an absent hand to her stomach, hiding what was already hidden.
Never get skinny.
Don’t give them a reason to look and they won’t look,
Won’t see, won’t judge, won’t ask.
She looks into the mirror, at the marring scar.
It’s her chain, her chastity.
A moment of depression, despair, and then it’s gone.
They can’t judge what they can’t see.
She lowers her shirt.
Lets some hair fall loose.
Beauty is only a morning ritual.